When Arrows Fly
I stretched my arms and lie down on the makeshift bed, pulling my satchel from under the pillow and taking out the slim box.
It never fails to amaze me every time I see the arrow float from the box and just zoom around, glinting as it reflected the late afternoon sun that shines light from the barred window of the back room. I snatched the arrow and inspected it closely – the engraving on it are bizarre, not like the ones I usually see at the temples of Eros, but more ancient, as though it was the language Zeus has thought his children. I stowed the arrow back on the box and pushed it inside the depths of my satchel with the rest of the shivering letters, refusing to remind myself of Caelum
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